


lift the boy homesick

by Catherines_Collections



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Background Huey and Dewey and Louie Duck, Defamiliarization, Gen, Horror, Identity Issues, Mirror Universe, POV Second Person, Pre-Season/Series 02, Supernatural Elements, family & finding your place in it, monsters that lurk in the dark, think after shadow war & before Della Duck arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 02:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18955780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: “Hello,” the you that is not you says.And it’s strange, unnerving, to hear your own voice stretching outside of your body.





	lift the boy homesick

**Author's Note:**

> The more dust I removed, the more these shadows grew.   
>  Summer arrived. The children   
>  leaned over the rose border, their shadows   
>  merging with the shadows of the roses.
> 
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> \- Louise Gluck

 

  
  
  
There’s a moment, torn between your phone’s attempted transmission and its immediate disconnect, that paves a way for how these situations can go.

 

Or, really, how you’ve learned to navigate the roads that come out of them.

 

A nonexistent phone signal is just the first step to this one.

 

Taking stock is the first step on the survival plan you made when you realized this adventure thing was going to stick, and something a little too like your brother’s voice nags you for it when you realize that nothing starts to feel familiar.

 

You don’t remember what lead you here.

 

You don’t quite know where _here_ is yet, but you’re working on it. There are plans humming in the back of your mind as you pocket your phone.

 

You’re used to this now, the not-knowing.

 

The recipe for it is still the same, usually: something about hidden treasure, another note surrounding a curse, backing the bravery of your brothers’ and uncle against it. It’s a puzzle that fits and you aren’t too far from belief of it.

 

It isn’t unusual, and maybe that’s a bad thing but it’s still true.

 

There was an adventure, you’re sure of it, that took you here, to what you now see is a room that is not your room. It’s shaped like your room, though.

 

It’s modeled the same, you realize, quartered off like a parallel to your own, but the colors are inverted, slightly less than they should be.

 

There is one bunk instead of three, and you don’t see your brothers.

 

That isn’t right.

 

You’re alone, and maybe it’s an accident, another secret hallway that only you managed to fall through like Toth-rah. Or maybe it’s purposeful, the result of a trick room you sat in trying to opt out like Mt. Neverrest.

 

You turn, again, and there’s a mirror you didn’t catch before, your face reflected in it- smiling and leaning against the wall. Same angle, same height: different you.

 

For once, there are two sides to the mirror instead of six. You stare at your hands until you’re sure you know where they end and glance up again.

 

You’ve never had a mirror like this.

 

Carefully, you note, how the corner of your reflection’s smile lifts before you’ve fully turned to face it.

 

And, again, maybe you should be more afraid than you are in this moment, but you aren’t, and the back of your mind goes quiet in response.

 

Your fingers scratch at the inside of your hoodie for your phone, and you face the you that is not you with your hands taunt in your pockets.

 

Your reflection tilts its head, and the you that is not you smiles.

 

“Hello.”

 

 

.

 

 

You don’t know how Scrooge does it exactly, the whole ‘keeping a family together’ trick.

 

Your uncle’s the key to a lock you haven’t quite figured how to pick yet, but you’re working on it- finding what makes a golden goose tick.

 

Most of the people you never met until this year have been your family. Uncles and cousins you never knew existed. _Experiences_ you didn’t know existed until you hopped out of your old life and into the new one Scrooge glued together himself.

 

Too many pathways lead back to the life you had before this one, and you’re amazed at how well your family keeps moving forward from them instead of treading back.

 

There are loopholes, of course- your uncle’s silence, Webby and Mrs. B’s additions, your mother.

 

But there are always exceptions to any rule, and in this case it’s you and your brothers, the triplets who didn’t quite fit until your great uncle paved the way Donald didn’t take. Until you each found out he _could._

 

You know this, the difficulty of an ill fit, stronger then how much your uncles don’t want you to know it.

 

Being the youngest son to an infamous missing mother can tell you a lot of things if you let it.

 

 

.

 

 

The reflection smiles and it hurts, a bit, to see a thing that isn’t you playing the part better. It’s you down to your bones, across your wrists and dotting your ankles.

  
It has your brother’s smile but it speaks with your voice and the effect makes your skin cold.

 

You know, somehow, that if you were to reach out and touch it, it would shatter.

 

You don’t like the idea of having glass on your hands.

 

“Hi,” you settle on, instead, because you still aren’t sure about the etiquette for meeting your doppelganger for the first time.

 

You aren’t expecting it to laugh like you’ve just told a joke.

 

Your knees catch the end of anti-you’s bed and you watch the reflection’s smile fade to something softer.

 

It hums, quiet, and you’ve been in the world of monsters long enough to know it’s a precursor to reveal. Your nails catch in the thread of your pocket. You don’t meet its eyes when you scan the room again.

 

“Hi,” the you that is not you says, and it’s strange, unnerving, to hear your own voice stretching outside of your own body.

 

You feel its eyes settle on your face.

 

“How do you feel about a game?”

 

.

 

Usually, there are various factors contributing to how these adventures play out: your uncle’s preparation, the temperament of your brothers, Webby’s weapon collection, uncle Donald’s absence.

 

But, most of the time, the main factor stands with you and your brothers. How focused Huey is divided by Dewey’s bravery of the day. It’s an equation you’re still working out. Huey’s always been the one best at math.

 

In this case, it’s still your brothers bridging the disconnect between the mirror room and how you got here. There’s a thread of memory you’re latching onto, but it’s barely there. Action with no resolution to back it, but you still crack it apart.

 

The memory plays like this:  
  
  
There’s no reflection and the floor is on fire, the ceiling’s sinking.

 

Dewey’s on his feet, charging at the first shadow creature he sees, and Huey rehearses something in a language you don’t know, calm and clear while his body shakes. His stance doesn’t give.

 

You, on the other hand, can’t feel your legs.

 

There’s the rough material of your pants brushing uncomfortably against your skin when the shadowed figure swings by, and time is marked by the coins rattling in your pockets with your brother’s screams, and _then-_

 

jelly, your legs, the things you can’t do to move them.  
  
  
  
Huey gets louder as the incantation gets quicker and there’s a shadow running for them that your brother’s don’t see, but you do.

 

You’re all trying to stop the monster coming for you.

 

But that doesn’t mean it works.

 

It _does_ mean that you are the one to fall through the shadow when you move quick enough to push your brothers out of the way.

 

 

.

 

 

“You get three questions,” not you says, and there’s a glint in its eyes you don’t want to think about when it holds up three fingers, lightly tapping the glass with its thumb.

 

“Each gets one uninhibited answer _from_ you _for_ you. Don’t you want to know what you can’t answer for yourself?”

 

For a moment, you swear not you’s face glitches from smirking reflection into violent purple shapes.

 

You blink and it’s back to seeing yourself, winking.

 

You need to find your brother’s, something like your uncle’s voice whispers. But that doesn’t erase your curiosity.

 

Still, it’s too easy. You of all people know there’s no such thing as getting something for nothing.

 

You ask, “What do you get?”

 

The ice freezing your stomach over decides you don’t like the way anti-you’s face contorts.

 

.

 

  
  
  
You have lists.

 

It’s a Huey thing, you know, but your symptom siblings down to the last feather, even if neither of you likes to go looking for it, and something caught but you don’t tell your brothers.

 

So, you have lists.

 

Good versus bad, get rich quick schemes, plans you’ve tried with your brothers, things to never say to Uncle Donald, things that make Dewey cry, things that make Huey go red, items to keep under your pillow in case money gets tight again, how to play games you can’t win, places you can’t talk your way out of, things you’ve gathered about your mom.

 

You have _things_ and ways to catalog how you like _things._

 

Greed isn’t exclusively a rich man’s vice.

 

You have a methodology, even if it’s mostly indecipherable to anyone other than you.

 

Other you chips at the glass and you start scanning through them.

 

 

.

 

 

You meet not you’s eyes and ask, “Where am I?”

 

And other you sits and cross its legs. You mimic the actions at the end of not-you’s bed because the idea of your reflection not reflection still makes your head too light.

 

Not you leans back on its arms and watches you, calculating with your own expression.

 

“Let’s call it somewhere between your world and mine, minding the shadow sphere’s gap.”

 

Anti-you looks bored with your question. “But that one’s easy, you would have gotten there on your own eventually.” Something on your face lights.

 

Its smile widens and it leans forward, “Come on, don’t you have something you _really_ want the answer to? Maps to unlimited wealth, family secrets, friendly ‘what ifs’ you want to dig up?”

Not you scrapes harder at the thin sheet of glass separating you, and you feel the ice in your stomach melt when it starts to peel.

 

 

.

 

 

Your mother left.

 

And sometimes it matters whether it was intentional or not and others it doesn’t.

 

You don’t ask your brothers about it.

 

Dewey’s too loyal and Huey’s teetering on an edge that you’re not sure you are willing to cross. So, you don’t talk about it. About her or your uncle’s silence. Not the years you didn’t know you were missing until you found them dripping with gold.

 

Mirrored you flexes his fingers until they’re crossed, tilts his head like he’s seeing them for the first time, and you can’t help but wonder what he thinks about it.

 

There are questions burning on your tongue you’ve never let yourself think before.

 

You’ve never asked your brother because you _could_ never ask your brothers, but this one— this one is different.

 

 

.

 

 

The thing that isn’t you tilts its head, waiting.

 

There’s a voice in your mind that sounds a little too much like Huey screaming _getoutgetoutgetout_ when its finger continues gently taps the glass _,_ but you’ve never been the triplet good at listening.

 

“How did I get here?” you ask, instead, and watch your reflection’s eyes narrow.

 

Not you clucks it’s tongue and leans back on its arms, “Boring questions.”

 

Not you presses a hand against the glass and you follow it mindlessly.

 

 _Any hands can be your hands if you need them to be_ , you think.

 

You try not to need them.

 

“You see how dark this room is?” Not you says.

 

You nod because you’ve noted it— how all the windows are sealed shut.

 

“The light from where you came from works as a transport. This is just the final destination.”  
  
  
  
The you that is not you follows something with its eyes that you can’t see, but you watch the darkness anyway.

 

Not you continues, “It’s like a portal, kind of. The light from the outside feeds what it catches to the shadows in here.”

 

You aren’t smiling when it turns back to face you, grinning.

 

“One way in,” the you that is not you says, hand returning to chipping at the glass. “And one way out.”

 

There are five things you’ve never count on before this— plans, weapons, words, time, and winning.

 

But you’ve never thought twice when it comes to your brothers, still clinging to some desperate hope of being saved.

 

Maybe this one is on you.

 

There’s a quiet _crack_ and you watch webbed cracks grow in the glass. You know that you don’t want to be here once the glass gives.

 

A room’s a prison from both sides when you don’t know the way out.

  
  
  
.

 

You have dreams about her, of course. The mother who never got to be your mother.

 

You all do, you’re sure, but you’re the only one who thinks about admitting them.

 

Most times, it’s common things: you all watching TV together in the living room on the houseboat, Uncle Donald smiling easier than he has since you came along, birthdays where your mother makes your cake with a candle for each of you, Scrooge laughing while Webby and Launchpad hang streamers.

 

Sometimes, your mind can paint quite the pretty picture.

 

Others, it’s too dark.

 

There are shadows where there aren’t stars and everything freezes when you touch it.

 

In these, you don’t get to talk, and you watch your mother watching you but can’t feel your brothers at your back.

 

She says, “It had to be me.”

 

And you know it didn’t. But you don’t get to talk, not here. Not with your brothers missing from you and cold shadows attaching to your shadow.

 

You’re alone in ways you have never wanted to be.

 

There’s a gene of luck in your family that you missed out on. It skipped right over you onto your brothers, bathed them over just like your mother.

 

It doesn’t matter, really. Not what you think about any of it. Fate has never been a close friend of yours.

 

Your mother says, “It had to be me, kid.”

 

And you still don’t forgive her.

 

 

.

 

 

It’s easy, once the answer’s been laid out in front of you, to see how the light in the room doesn’t shift.

 

There can’t be shadows where there isn’t light and reflection you hordes it all- the portal, the light, what took you from your brothers.

 

And then you, on your feet, waiting.

 

Reflection you taps the glass, slows when the sheet doesn’t move with him, and you know he’s testing it. Whether it’s for restraint or temperament you aren’t sure. You never were the one your brothers could read.

 

Not you smiles and it look like it’s breaking its face. You make a note and understand all the times Dewey teases you for faking happy. You don’t do it well. Or at all.

 

It’s a scary look on you, he’s right. But you don’t mind it, not here where the light doesn’t hurt.

 

You don’t have to see your reflection to know you broke it in yourself. The shadow absence confesses it for you.

 

“You’re running out of glass,” not you notes  

 

You don’t smile back.

 

The mirror stares and you swear it’s trying to create something that’s never been there. Not you exists and says with it, _your body is not your brothers’_.

 

But it’s never been true, not like this.

 

Not when your body hasn’t been yours long enough to make it into this. Still never first, but third of the first.

 

You don’t have to specify when you ask, “What does it cost?”

 

 

.

 

 

You aren’t your mother’s son or you uncle’s counterpart and half the time you still aren’t sure where your brothers’ hands end and yours begin between the three of you.

 

Maybe that should feel more cruel than it hits you.

 

It isn’t.

 

You don’t need your brothers to believe you. You have never _needed_ any of this. You _want_ more than you have words for.

 

The lists, the plans, all the notes you made when your uncles were looking at your brothers instead of you don’t sting like they probably should.

 

Once you’ve line everything you’ve gathered and pressed it into a mold, you settle into what you know:

 

1.) Reflection is _not_ a shadow.

 

2.) You fell through a light and ended up in its suffocation.

 

3.) If you can shatter the glass quick enough to result a flash, you _might_ have enough light to send you home.

 

 

.

 

 

“Not fair,” the you that is not you pouts and you catch a glimpse of teeth. Those, you know, are yours.

 

Your hands, your teeth, not your fight until it had to be.

  
“I think you’ve used them all up.”

 

 

.

 

From every situation you’ve come to know, between meetings and adventures and finding family you never knew you could have, you’ve gathered one constant among your family:

 

None of these changes have ever fit to you.

 

None of this has ever been you.

 

 

.

 

Reflection you knocks the glass hard enough to break it, and you watch spider shards spread around the mirror’s sides.

 

There’s something to be said for how much you would give for your brothers.

 

You don’t think Scrooge has learned that yet, how much you are willing to give for your family.

 

And maybe that’s the difference, the divider between your old life and new one, the realization that you would bleed yourself dry if it could save your family.

 

Reflection you lifts another finger, but you’re quicker.

 

Not you doesn’t see your fist catch.

 

.

 

It doesn’t work like you wanted it to, of course.

 

Something burns liquid hot before you feel cold running down your arm.

 

But, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.

 

.

  
  
  
  
You close your eyes as the room flashes, and the sweep of _falling_ hits you before you hear the walls shatter.   
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> title from Janet Holmes; I don’t own anything. this is the most niche thing i've ever written, and it took me two months to pull together, but I hope you enjoyed <3.


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